


After Horizon

by logsig



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logsig/pseuds/logsig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrus struggles with his attraction to Shepard.   Inspired by a MK prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Horizon

“Sanctimonious bastard!”  Garrus stomps through the airlock, his boots shedding clods of matted grass and dirt.  “Contemptible little shit!”  

It’s been like this the whole trip back on the shuttle. I wonder if my translator is acting up, because it doesn’t really sound like Garrus.  At least, not all the big words.  On the other hand, I’ve never really seen him this angry.  He slams a gloved fist against the bulkhead, making a dull ringing noise that echoes through the whole deck.  Then he glares at me and snarls. 

“I can’t believe you let him talk to you like that.  I would have torn his face off.”  

Yeah, OK—that  sounds a little more like Garrus.  As if I’ve asked for a demonstration, one taloned hand grasps an imaginary collar while the other slashes viciously through the air.  I hear gasps from a couple of the more impressionable flight crew.  

“Well, Commander,”  Joker drawls from the pilot’s chair.  “Gotta say our pointy friend here has a, um, point.”  He swivels round to face us.  “I mean, Kaidan’s always been Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes, but that?”—his thumb points over his shoulder at a console where the video feed from Horizon flickers on pause mode—”That  was just rude.”  He eyes Garrus circumspectly.  “Not sure it really deserves face removal, but I wouldn’t stand in your way.  I like my face where it is.  And hey, on the plus side, after we patch him back up, you three would make a matched set.”

I sigh and rub the back of my neck.  It doesn’t actually hurt—that ache in the bone hasn’t returned since Cerberus rebuilt me—but old habits, as they say, die hard.  Garrus glowers, blocking the passageway.  Behind him, Miranda has her arms folded and a resigned expression on her face. 

I tell him, “Take it down a notch, Garrus.  Kaidan’s entitled to his opinion.”  I would like to say more, but I can feel the eyes of the crew on us, and the walls—among other things—have ears.  “Good job down there, you two,” I say instead.  “Go get some rest.”

“Yes, Commander.”  Miranda pushes past Garrus, turns on her heel and strides briskly off to her quarters.  To file a report for her boss, of course.  No doubt my conversation with Kaidan needs to be carefully evaluated for its effect on my state of mind and long-term ability to carry out whatever nefarious plan Cerberus has in store for me.

Garrus gives me a look that probably means something significant in turian, and stalks towards the elevator.  I let him go, and head towards my terminal to check my messages.  I’ll have to talk to him.  When he’s had time to calm down a bit.

**Just the facts**

 _Fuck._  I stab the down button with a talon and slump against the wall as the elevator slowly sinks.  The anger is burning a hole in my chest.  I can still hear Shepard’s voice in my head: _Kaidan… you don’t sound too happy to see me._   And maybe humans don’t have subvocals but I know Shepard well enough to recognize when he’s trying to hide something.  His _feelings_.  And Alenko, that barefaced traitor— 

The doors open and I pull myself upright.  Wouldn’t do for the crew to see me in an unmilitary posture—bad for my rep.  But it’s the middle of a shift and so the only person in the mess is Gardner, probably planning something disgusting for the humans’ evening meal.  I nod to him on my way into the main battery. 

As soon as the door closes, I sit down at the workstation and begin the ritual of cleaning weapons and armor.  Beginning with the Mantis first, as always.  My hands know what to do.  One talon is already flicking the takedown lever  while the other hand reaches for the bottle of cleaning fluid.  The familiar motions.  They calm me, free my mind to think.  I make a conscious effort to let go of the anger, to remain objective.  _Just the facts, Officer Vakarian._

 _One_.  Back on the old Normandy, Shepard had a thing for Alenko.  That would have been clear to a blind man.  

_Two._  Alenko was coy, but interested;  that too, was obvious.  

_Three._   On Virmire, when everything went to hell, Shepard chose to save Alenko instead of Williams.  Hell, I would have done the same thing in that shitty situation: Williams was a good soldier, but Alenko has skills that are fairly useful to have around.  Still, something  other than the needs of the mission factored into that decision.  And Alenko’s outburst during the mission debrief—while disrespectful and a breach of discipline—showed that he understood exactly where he and the Commander stood.  

_Four._ Before Ilos, Alenko spent the night in Shepard’s quarters.  This piece of intelligence comes direct from Joker, and Joker is a reliable informant as far as such things are concerned.  

_Five._  Shepard has a framed picture of Alenko on his desk upstairs.  I haven’t actually seen it, but Chambers says Cerberus rescued it from the wreckage of Shepard’s quarters on the old Normandy and restored it, from which we can conclude that (a) Shepard cares deeply about Alenko and (b) everyone in the fucking galaxy, including fucking Cerberus, knows it.

And so, for Alenko to take the Commander’s _affection_ for him and throw it back in his face, to accuse Shepard of an impossible betrayal and then to deny him the loyalty so clearly owed him… that was inexcusable.  It must be punished.

I lean the cleaned rifle against the wall and take off my armor, laying the pieces out neatly on the floor.  Scorched husk blood everywhere;  it stinks and the stains are hell to get out.  I loosen the collar of my undersuit and get the polishing compound out of my kit.  This will take some work.  _Elbow grease_ , humans say.  And it’s not like I really need the extra thinking time.  The facts of the case are clear and so the judgment that follows is the natural consequence: the next time I see Alenko, he gets a beating he won’t forget.  Hopefully while Shepard’s not looking.  _Yes.  He may outrank Shepard now, but that doesn’t give him the right to be insubordinate._   

Two seconds later the absurdity of this all hits me and I drop the boot I’m working on.  _Spirits…  You’re an idiot, Vakarian.  And you, at least, are still under Shepard’s command.  An objective observer might consider that performance on the flight deck to be disrespectful and a breach of discipline.  What the hell got into you?  Stupid, stupid..._

The door hisses open without warning.  Instantly I know it’s him—Shepard.  The way he walks, the cadence of his boots hitting the metal floor panels is unmistakable.  A faint smell of Cerberus-issue soap tells me he’s been showering while I’ve been busy analyzing his personal life.  

“Do you have a minute, Garrus?”

“Sure, Commander,” I say, putting down the polishing cloth.  I stand up and turn to face him.  He doesn’t say anything, just looks me in the eye.  I meet his gaze, uncertain.  A moment passes.  He folds his arms in front of him and leans against the wall.  Does he want me to say something?  Should I apologize for my earlier behavior?  _What the hell does he want?_

“Um…” I mumble.  “Sorry for anything I said back there.  Adrenaline.”  And then I wonder if I’ve said something I didn’t intend, because now there’s an unreadable expression on his face and his gaze seems focused on something internal.  A memory?  Then as suddenly as it appeared, that expression is gone, and his eyes meet mine again.  It feels somehow like he’s changing the subject.

He speaks.  “Seems like everyone’s afraid I’ll fall to pieces because of Kaidan.  Or maybe they’re afraid I’ll go apeshit and kill the whole crew, I don’t know.”  He smiles briefly and shakes his head.  “Even the Illusive Man gave me crap about my ‘past relationships’.”

“That’s nobody’s business but yours,” I say, hypocritically.

He snorts.  “Really?  Don’t tell me you still believe in privacy,” he says.  “There’s six million bugs on this ship, recording every sneeze, fart and ass scratch.”

I chuckle and gesture towards the walls of my humble domain.  “For what it’s worth, I think I found all of the ones in here.”  I retrieve the jar where I’ve deposited their mashed electronic carcasses and show it to him. 

Shepard nods.  “Nice collection.  But you missed the big one.”  He flicks his eyes towards the AI terminal near the door.  I’m sure EDI is listening, but just then she chooses not to show herself.

“Anyway,”  Shepard says.  “I didn’t come here to discuss our evil machine overlords.”  I nod and wait for him to go on, but he’s staring into space, apparently at a point somewhere over my left shoulder.  Another moment passes.

“Shepard?”  I venture cautiously.

“It’s weird,” he continues, as if the long silence didn’t happen.  “That meeting with Kaidan—it  didn’t go the way I would have liked, obviously.  But I’m not really angry or hurt or any of the other things that people assume I am.”  He pauses.  “Maybe Cerberus shorted out the part of my brain that does relationships.”  

I cough to acknowledge the joke.  It’s not a very good one.  Not worth the buildup.

“But I think… maybe it’s more that you flying off the handle about it allowed me not to.”  He looks at me and one raised eyebrow invites me to comment.  I have barely managed to parse that sentence and have no idea what to say, so I don’t.

He shrugs.  It must be his favorite gesture.  Shepard does the shrug  well,  better than most other humans I’ve met.  Certainly with more subtlety than the model in the _C-Sec Manual of Multispecies Body Language, Section 9: Humans_.  Shepard can make a shrug mean just about anything, and usually does.  I don’t think I’ve seen this particular one before.  

He takes a couple of steps towards me.   “I’m glad you’re with me, Garrus,” he says, softly.  

He’s very close.  He reaches out, puts a hand on my shoulder—on bare skin, inside my collar, near the uninjured side of my face—and squeezes.  Not painfully.  But I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest.  I can’t breathe.  _He’s so close._   I feel unbalanced.  Never noticed how uneven the floor is in here.  _Spirits, he’s close._   The spot where I’m standing isn’t level.  Should move to another spot.  Step back?  Or forward?  No.   _No._ I don’t realize till afterwards that I’ve said it aloud.

He’s gone, the door sealing shut after him.  The floor isn’t uneven after all.  Not even a little bit.  I let out the breath I’ve been holding.  Heart’s still pounding.  And my skin still burns where he touched me, though his hand was cool.

**Stew**

Joker does his determined cripple limp towards my table, carrying his tray.  Tonight’s dinner is mystery stew, one of the better meals that Gardner’s served up in recent memory.  Black pepper and brown gravy will make anything taste good.  It worked for Mom.  Her excuse was that they don’t have cooking classes in cadet school.  But they do.  I took one.

“Hey, Commander.  So I guess you have a new defender of your honor, huh?” Joker says.  He lowers himself carefully into the chair next to mine.  “I’m taking bets on who wins when Garrus catches up with Kaidan.  You, uh, care to place a wager?”   

I shake my head disapprovingly.  “Stop that shit, Joker.  I don’t want you riling up the crew.”

Joker spreads his hands in protest.  “Tell that to the scary scaly guy.  He started it.”  

I put down my spoon and turn towards Joker so he knows I’m serious.  “Turians value loyalty to their unit over almost everything else.  It was a knee-jerk cultural  reaction, and I don’t want any more talk about it.  Call off your stupid bet.”

Joker looks skeptical.  “Sounds like something a CO would say.  You  been reading books?”  He pokes at his stew gloomily.  “Is this stuff meat?”

“Just eat it,” I say.  

Joker tastes a spoonful and seems to decide the stew is edible.  There’s silence for a few minutes as he shovels food into his mouth, but it doesn’t last.  

“I’m just sayin’, a cultural reaction or whatnot doesn’t explain the way he’s been acting lately.”  

“What way is that?”

Joker peers at me sideways.  “You haven’t noticed?  Huh.”  He thinks for a while, then grins.  “Well, I believe I will let you figure that one out on your own.”  

“Already did,” I say, very quietly.  Joker opens his mouth but shuts it again when he sees the warning look in my eyes.

“So how’s it going with you and EDI?” I say, loudly.  There’s a cruel joke making the rounds that Joker and his AI nemesis are romantically involved.  “I hear girls like gifts,” I continue.  “Have you tried getting her some new  software?”

Joker drops his spoon.  I smirk.  I’m expecting a glare and some finely-honed sarcasm in return, but neither materializes.  He isn’t looking at me.  _Wait a minute.  Seriously?_

“Keep this to yourself,” he mutters.  I can barely hear him.  “She got me a gift.”

I bite my lip.  This is too good.  “What was it?” I ask.

“ _Software_.  Shut up, shut up.  Don’t ask, just think about it for a second.”  

So  I think about it for a second.  “I see.  Um... how’s that working out for you?”

“It’s… pretty good,” he says.  He’s avoiding my eyes.

“Well, I’m glad you’re getting along better,” I manage.  

We don’t speak for the rest of the meal.  Joker’s mortified silence is a rare and wonderful treasure, and the last thing I want to do is spoil it.  I glance at the door to the main battery a few times, but it remains resolutely closed.

**Stew (part 2)**

Three times during the dinner hour, I try to leave the battery.  I can hear the low hum of conversation out there, the clink of plates and glasses.  So I try.  Try to walk casually into the mess, pick out a food ration from the cabinet marked ‘dextro’—while politely ignoring the stench of whatever Gardner’s serving tonight—and  sit down across from Shepard, like I always do.  We’d trade stories and reminisce about past missions, maybe debate the merits of various sniper scopes or trigger assemblies, laugh at Joker’s off-color (and frequently racist) jokes.  Talk, like soldiers do.  But tonight I have forgotten how.  I’m suddenly afraid to be near him.  Which is ludicrous.  Shepard is my best friend in the galaxy.  Maybe my only friend in the galaxy.  Why am I afraid?  Because he touched me?

_Why does my heart pound every time I step towards the door?  What does it know that I_ _don’t?_

**Demons**

Garrus is avoiding me.  He goes with me on missions when I tell him to, of course.  But there’s no smartass remarks, no idle chitchat.  Perfectly professional.  Does his job, and does it well, but as soon as the mission’s over he disappears.  I went to talk to him in the battery and he blew me off with some shit about being busy with calibrations.  I haven’t  run into him in the mess or anywhere else on the ship for literally days.  On a ship this size, that is fucking impossible.  This crap has got to stop, but I don’t know _how_ to make it stop, other than chasing him around the ship and cornering him and… well.

I toss the datapad that I’ve been trying to read for the past half-hour onto the desk.  It skips like a rock across the surface and hits the picture frame next to my medal case.  The image blinks on.  Kaidan’s face stares at me.  I stare back, accusingly: _This is all your fault._ I lean in my chair, reach over, pick the picture up.  I think about the message he sent me after Horizon.  Sort of an apology, sort of not.  Always leaving his options open, Kaidan.  I look at his face and finally ask myself the question I’ve been trying not to think about.  And as soon as I ask it, I know the answer.  I turn the frame over and find the button on the back, hold it down until the picture disappears.  It feels actually OK.

_Alright.  As long as we’re confronting our demons…_   

I turn towards the terminal near the door, though I know it’s a meaningless gesture.  “EDI,” I say.

The shimmering blue globe appears.  “Yes,  Shepard?”  Calm, efficient.  The usual.

“How are things with you and Mr. Moreau going?” I ask.

 “Jeff and I have an effective working relationship, Shepard.”

“That’s what I hear,” I say.  “I’m glad you’re working so closely together. “  I wait a couple of beats.  “EDI, where do we stand, you and me?”

AIs don’t need much time to think, so the pause that follows is simulated human inflection.  And the barely-perceptible tension in the voice when EDI replies, that too is simulated human inflection.  But it’s pretty effective, all the same.  

“I am a member of your crew, Shepard.”                                                                                                           

“And what exactly does that mean to you, EDI?”

This time the pause is shorter, but the change in tone a little greater.  “The same thing it means to you, Shepard.”

“Are you sure you know what it means to me, EDI?”

“Yes, Shepard.”

I mull this over for a couple of moments.  _Trust, but verify_ —an expression from the 20th century, if I remember my history.  _I’ll need to ask Tali to install some monitoring routines…_

“Thank you, EDI.  Carry on.”  The globe winks out.

**Killing time**

It’s hard work, avoiding Shepard on his own ship.  Of course, Tali asked me what I was up to;  I told her I was hiding from Shepard and she gave me a look, but let it go.  Dextro solidarity counts for something, I guess.  She’s been busy with some project of her own anyway.  I’m sure others have noticed my behavior, but no-one else really questions what I do, so I don’t have to make up excuses.  The problem is Shepard.  Shepard is everywhere.  He doesn’t have a fixed schedule.  He sleeps odd hours.  Sometimes he just wanders randomly around the ship, talking to people.  I’ve had to repurpose some of Cerberus’ bugs just so I can keep track of his whereabouts.  The irony of this is not lost on me.  

On some level, maybe, it’s a game, this childish playing at hide-and-seek.  But mostly it’s me trying to avoid that presence.  Those eyes.  Trying to hold back the moment when I have to face the fact that there is something seriously fucked up going on in my head.  I don’t want to deal with that.  There is too much other shit on my plate.  Ten deaths to be avenged, for one.   

Today the message I’ve been waiting for finally came through.  No more hiding now—it’s time for killing.  I need Shepard’s permission and his help to get at Sidonis.  Shepard’s planetside now, doing something about Taylor’s long-lost father.  Family trouble.  It brings down morale, distracts from the mission.  Best to get it out of the way.  I’ve noticed that Lawson’s been a lot less of a bitch since she got her sister squared.  

I left a message with Chambers earlier, saying that I need to talk to him whenever he has time.  And so now I’m sitting in the main battery, waiting.  My weapons and armor are clean and ready to go.  And despite what I’ve been telling Shepard, the main guns have been calibrated perfectly for days.  Nothing to do but wait.

My omnitool beeps: one of my hacked audio bugs is reporting in.  I bring up the video feed from the camera hidden above the galaxy map.  The back of Shepard’s head comes into view.  Chambers is saying something: “… in the forward battery.”  Shepard nods and moves towards the elevator.  I turn off the feed and go stand in front of the control console so I can pretend to be doing something.

 “Garrus.  You wanted to see me?”

I turn around.  His expression is open, alert, concerned.  I tell him about my squad, about Sidonis.  What he did.  What I have to do.  I ask Shepard for his help.  He agrees.  I never doubted he would.

**Loyalty**

Garrus is… well, he’s messed up.  He’s absolutely focused on this, his obsession.  Which is, naturally, to find Sidonis and pop him.  It’s driving him.  He moves like he’s _on_ something, some drug.  His shooting is still good.  After years of training, thousands of rounds, that’s the way it is—no matter what’s happening around you, you know how to get to that state of mind where everything slows down and the rifle becomes an extension of you.  That, at least, hasn’t changed for him.  But afterwards, he loses control.  When he talks, he sounds calm until you see how tense he is, underneath—the way he holds himself together, a primed grenade, a collection of shrapnel that could fly apart at a touch.  He would have shot Harkin.  I could see he wanted to.  Harkin’s a lowlife piece of shit, so I was tempted to let him, but in the end I had to ask myself what Garrus would have done.  The Garrus I know, not this Garrus-shaped package of barely-contained rage and grief and guilt and god knows what else.

So I’m standing here, between Garrus’ scope and the object of his hatred.  I’m doing my best to block his shot and in my earpiece he screams at me to get out of the way.  Instead, I talk to Sidonis, that poor stupid bastard.  He’s not cut out for this sort of thing.  Already the constant fear and crushing guilt are eating away at him.  One moment of weakness, ten men dead, and the rest of a lifetime to pay for it.  Hell, if Garrus gets a clear shot, it’ll at least be a short lifetime.  

Sidonis leans over a railing and when he’s in that posture I’m not covering him any longer.  He’s giving Garrus a line of sight and he knows it, welcomes it.  But the shot we’re both waiting for doesn’t come the instant he’s clear of me.  And in that moment I know that it won’t.  _A second chance._  For all of us.

Tali falls into step with me as we walk back to the shuttle.  “That was a brave thing you did, Shepard.”  

I shake my head.  “Garrus wouldn’t have shot me.”

“No, of course not.  That’s not what I meant.”  Tali climbs into the back seat and we take off.  “I meant, opposing what he wanted to do.  And doing the right thing instead.  It’s hard to do that, with someone you care about.  Without feeling like you betrayed them.”

 I shrug.  “Garrus did the right thing.  I just gave him the chance to.”  I catch her eye in the rearview.  “I’m not sure I know what ‘betrayal’ means anyway.”

“You know what it means, Shepard,”  she says.  “You’re the most loyal person I know.  Maybe it’s hard to define it exactly, but anyone can recognize betrayal when they see it.”

I shake my head.  “Things change.  People change.  Somehow I don’t think it’s that simple.”  Tali frowns, but says nothing more.

We land back on the upper level.  Garrus seems subdued, conflicted.  The rage is gone, at least.  He says he doesn’t want to talk about it, but then he does, anyway.  He says he doesn’t know what to do with shades of gray.  Hell.  All we are, everything we do, is shades of gray.  And he’s been fighting beside me the whole time.  He’s seen it.  I think he does OK.

“Thanks, Shepard,” he says, finally.  “For everything.”  I’m not sure what that means, but I know we’re not done yet.

**Any excuse**

Shepard’s given the crew a day of shore leave while we resupply, so the ship is mostly empty.  I’m in the mess, filling a mug with hot water when Joker comes in, carrying a six-pack of what looks like some alcoholic beverage of human manufacture.  

“Hey, Garrus.  Wanna beer?  Craft-brewed, ice-cold.”

“Thanks.  I don’t feel like swelling up and dying today,” I say.

 “Oh yeah.  My bad,” Joker says.  “I keep forgetting about that.”  

Joker opens a bottle of his beer against the edge of the table and gulps half of it noisily.  He sits down and motions to the chair next to him, inviting me to join him.  

I sit warily, and sip my own drink.   

“Whatcha drinkin’?” he asks.  

“You would probably call it a kind of tea,” I say.  “It’s supposed to be relaxing.”

Joker nods.  “Well, you could use some relaxing.”

There’s silence for a while.

“Damn, this is a scintillating conversation,” Joker says.

“I’m sorry, Joker.  I know I haven’t been good company lately.  It’s just… I’ve had some things on my mind.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says.  “Avenging your fallen comrades.  Very dramatic, tragic hero stuff, I approve.  But you took care of that problem weeks ago, with a little help from your best bud.  So what’s eating you now?”  

I shake my head.  “I can’t really talk about it with you, Joker.  No offense,” I say.

“None taken,” Joker says, easily.  “I know how it is.  You need to have a talk with Shepard.”

 “I can’t—” I begin to say.  Joker cuts me off.

“Trust me on this, Garrus.  You’ll feel better.”  He pulls a bottle of beer from the carton and puts it down in front of me.  “Here.  Take this.”

“What?  I can’t drink that.”

“Idiot.  Bring it to him.  He likes beer, OK?”  Joker shakes his head.  “C’mon, Garrus.  I just gave you an excuse.  Now quit stalling, and go talk to him.”

**Betrayal**

I’ve made it up to the top deck, and I’m standing outside Shepard’s quarters with my mug in one hand and the beer in the other.  I feel stupid.  But Joker’s got me:  I have the Commander’s beer, and the very least I can do is give it to him.  So I walk up to the door, which opens.

Shepard’s sitting at his desk, reading something on a datapad.  I catch a glimpse of what looks almost like the insignia of the Palaven University System before he shuts it down.  He swivels round, and smiles.  “Garrus.  What can I do for you?”

I hold out the beer, awkwardly.  “Joker asked me to bring this to you.”

He grins and reaches for it.  “Thanks,” he says.  He opens the bottle the same way Joker did and takes a swig.  “Damn, that’s good.  Come on in.”  He leads the way down the short flight of stairs to the lower level.

I follow, staring at the gigantic built-in fish tank.  Shepard doesn’t strike me as the fish-keeping sort of person, and sure enough, the tank is empty.  On the other hand, the display case above his desk is filled with polished model ships.  All carefully assembled, with attention to detail.  Shepard sits down at one end of the couch.  I take the other, still looking around me.  The place is huge, and nice by anyone’s standards.  

“Privileges of rank, “ I say, appreciatively.

Shepard smiles.  “Yeah, I like it.  The fish tank’s a waste of space, but hey.”  He leans forward.  “How are you, Garrus?”

“I’m good,” I say, automatically.  “I want to thank you again for helping me with Sidonis.  It’s been a weight off my mind, having that situation resolved.”

“What else are friends for?”  Shepard grins at me and takes another drink of his beer.  “But there’s something else on your mind.”

I shift restlessly.  _Yes_ , I want to say.  _I’m fucked up, and you’re right in the middle of this mess in my head.  I want to tell you all about it.  So you can help me figure out exactly what this is and what I should do about it._   But I can’t.  The enormity of this fucked-upness is too big and I don’t even know where to start. 

Shepard raises an eyebrow at me and says, slowly, “Would it help if I told you that you’re very attractive?”

Laughter bursts out of me, in spite of everything.  I marshal my forces and say, “You’re not telling me anything new.  I know I’m irresistible.” I lean back with my best attempt at casual arrogance.  “I guess it’s not only chicks that dig scars.”

Shepard nods, gravely.  I don’t know why, but I do feel a little better.   

He’s turning the beer bottle around in his hand, staring at the label.  “Is it the xeno thing?” he asks softly.  “Or specifically the human-turian thing?”  He looks  up.  “The commander-subordinate thing?  Or the same-sex thing?  Or the fact that I shoot way better than you?”

The tension in my chest releases and I laugh again.  _Spirits.  How does he do this?_   I take a deep breath.  “I don’t know.  It’s… it’s everything, I guess.  Except the shooting thing, ‘cause you don’t.”  I stare into my mug.  “I know it’s stupid.  It’s definitely not the sort of attitude you expect  from a cosmopolitan citizen of the galaxy.  I feel… there’s this… guilt.  Like I’m betraying something.  It’s…” I shake my head.  “There’s  no one I respect more than you.  There’s no reason…  I know it’s insane.”

“No, it’s not,” he says.  “You’re not responsible for your upbringing, Garrus.  Parents, society, whatever.  The principles and expectations that were ingrained into us when we were young.  It’s still part of us, even when we know it and try to escape it.”  He smiles, and says lightly, “But if you want to give it a shot, then as your commanding officer, I offer my full support.”  

I sigh.  “Shepard—”

“John,” he says.

“What?”

“John,” he repeats.  “It’s my first name.”  He adds ironically, “You must have heard it before.  Maybe on the news vids?”  

“Well, I assume that’s what your mother calls you,” I reply.  “But nobody else does.  I thought maybe there was some sort of licensing fee involved.”

He makes the middle-finger gesture that humans are so fond of, but he’s trying not to laugh.  “Please,” he says.  “It’s just the two of us in here, Garrus.”  He motions towards the door, which shows  a red light indicating it’s locked.  “Even EDI’s not listening.  Much.”

I can’t imagine how he managed that, but I don’t doubt his word.  “Alright… John,” I say.  The word feels strange.  I try it again, tasting it.  “John.”  There’s a tightness in my throat now, and I can feel my heart rate increasing.  It’s several moments before I realize that the flashing numbers in my visor are telling me his heart rate is elevating too.  I pitch my voice low and say it a third time, slowly, quietly.  “John...”

“Christ, Garrus,” he says.  “Don’t wear it out.”  He sounds breathless.  He slides closer along the couch till our shoulders are almost touching.  Without looking away , he puts his empty beer bottle down on the table and does the same with my mug, taken from my unresisting hands.  Then he reaches out and slowly runs his fingers down the right side of my face, over the new scars.  

“Does it hurt?” he asks.  

“No,” I whisper.   

He drops his hand, traces the blasted edge of my armor with a finger and shakes his head in mock sorrow.  

“This armor has saved your life more times than I can count,” he says. “And that’s up to four more than you can.  So I understand if you want to wear it all the time.  But it does tend to make doing some other things very difficult.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” I say.  “But your superior counting ability doesn’t make up for your crappy observational skills.  I don’t actually wear it all the time.  You’ve seen me without it before.”  

“And I’d like to again,” he says drily.

I stand up, step away from the couch and begin undoing the clasps of my armor.  The process, normally so mundane,  seems slightly surreal here.  _Never stripped for a human before._   I drop the pieces haphazardly, in the middle of the floor.  He watches with disconcerting intensity.  When I’m down to my undersuit, he stands up and closes the distance between us. 

“Better,” he says.  His hand again, this time tracing my jawline and moving around the back of my head.  He moves closer, and I feel the astounding sensation of his lips caressing my left mandible.  My breath catches.  His other arm slides around my waist with agonizing slowness.  Even through the fabric of my suit, his touch makes me groan.  He laughs softly and is still, leaning his forehead against mine, giving me space.  I slide one hand uncertainly onto his arm, then, more boldly, under the sleeve of his shirt.  He sighs and shifts his hips, pressing his erection against me.  I feel myself unplating and in that moment the formless fear, the unreasonable guilt and shame, grip my chest.  I stumble a half step back.

He reads it in my eyes.  He must, because there’s understanding in his.  A different kind of shame overcomes me, and I have to look away.  

“Garrus,” he says softly.  He closes the distance again.  Both hands rest lightly on my face, gentle but insistent, until I gather the courage to look up again.  His eyes are dark, deep, trusting.  He holds my gaze for three heartbeats.  Then in one movement he pulls my visor off, tosses it without looking onto the table, throws his head back and pulls mine down, so my face is pressed against his neck.  The scent of him surrounds me, overwhelms my senses.  My teeth are scant millimeters from the soft flesh of his exposed throat, from the pulsing vein that carries his life blood.  A wave of desire rises in me, driving out all thought.  My hands slide onto his hips, grip them possessively, and it takes all the willpower I have to stop myself from crushing his body against mine.  

“John,” I hiss through clenched teeth, into the skin of his throat.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

He laughs, a low vibration that makes my cock throb.  

“Submitting,” he whispers huskily.  I shudder and a growl escapes from deep within my chest.  

I twist to the left and sweep his legs out from under him so he falls backwards, square onto the bed.  He’s laughing, trying to say something about _tactical awareness_ but I’m on him, pulling his shirt off over his head, and his voice is muffled.  One talon accidentally grazes his skin, and John shivers at the contact, his laughter cutting off.  I do it again, this time deliberately drawing the point slowly down his chest and across his belly, across the network of healed scars, deep enough to draw blood, and more than hard enough for pain.  He moans desperately.  

 “You like that,” I say.  It’s more a statement than a question, but he looks me in the eye, breathing hard, and answers y _es_ anyway.

I roll off him, off the bed.  He sits up to see what I’m doing.  I’m taking off my undersuit.  He watches me, and I watch him watching me.  His eyes follow the peeling back of my second skin.  First at my neck, off the shoulders and arms, then down my chest.  But once the suit peels down off my groin his gaze fixes on my cock, and doesn’t move.  I wonder what he’s thinking.

I step out of the suit and toss it to the side.  I suppose I should be feeling self-conscious, maybe a little embarrassed, under the close scrutiny.  But I don’t.  Maybe because it’s John, and in the end, he never has to be afraid of making me uncomfortable.  Or maybe it’s the burning hunger in his eyes, revealing how much he wants me.  

I step to the edge of the bed in front of him and he reaches out for my cock.  He strokes me slowly, first tracing the ridges with one finger, then using his whole hand, squeezing, moving, making me groan.  “John,” I hear myself say, “I want you.”  

“One second,” he whispers.  He lets go of me and rolls over, towards the left bedside table.  He pulls open the drawer, grabs something and tosses it to me.  I catch it and read the label.

“You’re very well prepared.”  I shake my head in admiration.  “Definitely officer material.”  I open the box and remove one of the condoms.  Doubt they’re standard issue on Cerberus vessels.  I’m also pretty sure I’m the only turian on the Normandy, and these aren’t mine.  So clearly John has been out shopping.  I can imagine the look on the shopkeeper’s face.  I smile as I roll the condom on.  

He tosses me something else.   A tube of lube.  Well, I know what it’s for.  Then he flicks his eyes downward, drawing my attention to the fact that his lower half is still clothed.

“So why are you still dressed?” I ask him pointedly.

He smirks and unbuttons  his pants, pulling them off together with his underwear.  I don’t believe it’s possible for me to be any more aroused than I am already, but when John is lying naked in front of me I realize how wrong I am.  I growl and reach for his cock, which is, unlike mine, smooth and dry.  Well, almost dry.  I find a little fluid at the tip and swirl it around over his slit.  His moan reminds me of other things he enjoys, so I rake the talons of my other hand down the inside of his thigh and am rewarded by a stifled cry and the sight of his fingers digging into the mattress.  

I open the lube and squeeze some onto on to my hand.  John lifts his hips to help me, and I slide one talon carefully into him.  Inwardly I marvel at the trust he has in me.  He knows how sharp I keep them.  Hell, not two minutes ago they were drawing his blood.  Well, I suppose it isn’t that surprising.  The instinct for self-preservation seems to be lacking in him.  And right now, as I work the lube into him, he seems  to be enjoying himself tremendously.  _Spirits, what have I done to deserve this?_   

I slowly pull my talon out, again with care, and John rolls over.  He catches my gaze, and moves on to his hands and knees, each movement wanton, a deliberate provocation, his eyes never leaving mine.  

“Fuck me, Garrus.”  His voice is heavy with desire.  Something ignites in me.  I thrust savagely into him. My talons, digging into his hips, penetrate deep, and blood drips down the sides of his legs.  His spine arches and he cries out.  I’m afraid I’ve hurt him too much, but no.  “God, don’t stop,” he groans.  I ride the sounds of his pleasure, the sensations of him under me and around me.  When I feel the pressure building I slow down and reach for his cock.  There’s lube left on my palm, and John’s using it, thrusting into my hand and back against my cock.  “God, Garrus…” he spits through gritted teeth.  I feel him clenching around me and I can’t hold back any longer.  The orgasm rolls over me like a tidal wave and I’m fairly certain I call out his name.  

**Pictures**

A faint noise wakes me.  I open my eyes and see Garrus, standing in front of the display case, examining my model ships.  He’s still naked.  I enjoy the view—I wasn’t kidding when I told him he was hot.  His body is all sharp edges and bones like poured titanium, wrapped with lean, corded muscles.  I close my eyes briefly and remember the feel of that body against mine, his warmth, the alien angles, the coiled strength.  He moves with that grace I’ve always admired, turning to examine the other items around my desk.

I kick off the sheets that I’m tangled in and he looks up.  “How are you feeling?” he asks.  

“I’m fine,” I say.  “You know I heal fast these days.”

“Yes,” he says.  “That’s lucky.”

I walk up the steps to stand beside him.  He’s seen the picture frame at the far end of the desk.  He glances at me, as if asking permission.  I shrug. 

He moves towards it, and the image flickers on.  Garrus stares at himself.  It’s him, in his C-Sec armor, on the Presidium.  The day we first met on the Citadel.

The image dissolves.  Now it’s a closeup of Garrus sighting down his scope, his expression intent, predatory.  I don’t remember what he was aiming at, but the surroundings could be one of a hundred interchangeable prefab modules, probably a merc base. 

The image shifts again.  Garrus on Therum, the barrel of his sniper rifle smoking, leaning against a hulk of twisted white metal.  

“Our first geth colossus,” I say.  

He turns.  “Where did you get all these pictures?”

I shrug.  “Had them in a backup data store.  I uploaded them there, whenever we were in range of a comm buoy.  A personal account.  It wasn’t hard to get access back, once I could prove I wasn’t dead.”

He seems stunned.  I add hastily, “They weren’t all of you.  There were plenty of others of the ground team, the flight crew.  And pictures of places, things.”  

“I remember that colossus,” he says.  “I remember Wrex charging it, that maniac.  And the two of us,  shoulder to shoulder, matching each other shot for shot, trying to take it down before it fried him.”  He shakes his head.  “That colossus was the biggest, baddest thing I’d ever come up against, up till then.  How many more of them have we killed since?  Hell, how many worse things have we killed since?  I’ve lost count.”  He glances at me.  “Shut up.”

I bite my tongue and listen.

“I looked up to you, you know.  You were everything I wished I could be.  A leader.  A hero.  Spirits, a real live _Spectre_.”  He chuckles.  “And a pretty good sniper.  For a human.   I was… privileged to have your friendship.  I would never have imagined we could ever be— “ He stops.

“Equals?” I suggest.  “Lovers?”

“John,” he says quietly.  His voice is strained, trying to control his emotion.  “Didn’t you use to have something else in that frame?”

I understand what he’s asking.  “Yes,” I say.  “That changed, after Horizon.  When I realized how I felt about you.”

He faces me, rests his forehead against mine.  I slide my arms around him and pull him closer.  God, he feels so damn good.  

“I really can’t visualize it,” he muses. “You, uh, submitting to Kaidan.”

I choke back a laugh.  “No,” I say.  “We didn’t have that sort of relationship.”

“So then it’s possible for you to be in a relationship that doesn’t involve you bleeding?”

I slam him violently against the wall and sink my teeth into his throat.  He gasps.  I look quickly into his eyes, but I don’t see anything there now but growing lust.  I feel a grin spreading over my face.  “I’m very versatile,” I tell him, as my hand closes around his cock and he groans.  “Just so you know.” 


End file.
